Sir Tristram Sumner ... Proprietor and Manager of the Grosvenor Theatre. Gervase Sackville ... Bishop of St. James's. Warwick Groom ...} Silas Orchard ... } Actors. Mark Belfry ... An American Manager. Hildreth ... Sir Tristram's Secretary. Abbot ... Business Manager. Salerne ... Stage Manager. Blyth ... } Boulder ... } Commissionaires. Temple ... Sir Tristram's Dresser. Rouse ... Call-boy. Two Doctors Lady Sumner ... Sir Tristram's Wife. Europa Troop ... An Actress. Actors, Scene-shifters, Property-men. Scene: London. Time: The Present A month elapses between the third and fourth Acts. THE THEATROCRAT ACT I Scene: Sir Tristram Sumner's study in his house in Piccadilly. Sir Tristram is reading an old letter. When the door opens he puts the letter hastily in his pocket. Enter Lady Sumner. Sir T. Martha! You've come to trouble me; your eyes Are lustreless and evil. Will it end At all? Will you give over urging death? Lady S. A visitor. Sir T. Who is it? Lady S. Warwick Groom. Sir T. Impossible: at any time impossible. I hate him, Martha. Lady S. Hate? Hate Warwick Groom! I thought you hated no one. Sir T. So did I! But him I hate; because--he was my friend. Lady S. And would be still. Sir T. Therefore I hate him more! But that's not true: hate fathoms hate, and answers Index-like, the searching current of its thought, Down through the earth, or round it in the nerveless Air. Deep he hates me; by my hate I know. I tell you, Martha, were Warwick Groom and I Alone together for an hour, the death Of either or of both would testify Our rooted rancour. Lady S. I cannot understand! True, he is wild, this Warwick Groom of ours, And doors are shut against him; but a braver Artist starves not anywhere. Sir T. Starves? Let him starve. Lady S. This is so new, so sudden, Tristram! Sir T. No; Nothing is sudden that the heart brings forth. The mushroom spawn of passing loves and hates By thunder-showers and puddles quickly bred, To rot as quickly, in sequestered nooks Or by the trodden highways, are nothing--nothing But rashes on the skin. Lady S. You change the figure: The very rhapsody of Warwick Groom! Sir T. Plastic as molten metal! Living hate Mine is, a deeply struck deliberate cancer In the heart, and half as old as I: half Of my life it is: I know it now mature That knew it not a-growing: wholesome hate! A wholesome cancer, a resourceful pain, A fount of passion! Lady S. You forget yourself; For now you stare and pant like some insane Unhappy woman, sick with jealousy, Her strangled voice and prayer, "Oh, just to crush "My rival like a flea!" Sir T. So would I do! Lady S. I cannot understand you.